


well you look like yourself (but you're somebody else)

by ascxndent



Series: no grave can hold my body down; i'll crawl home to her. [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Amnesia, F/M, Memory Loss, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Fullmetal Alchemist: Conqueror of Shamballa, Slow Build, Slow Burn, c.o.s did martel DIRTY so i'm fixing this shit myself, no I will not elaborate, she deserved a cameo more than everyone else that got one in that movie im js, vague references to other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:41:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24652492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascxndent/pseuds/ascxndent
Summary: Greed and Martel find each other in the next life. Sorta. As a lonely ex-circus performer and an amnesiac conman who can't even remember his own name, let alone the feeling of why it feels like he's known her all his life.Surprisingly, the headache's mutual.
Relationships: Greed/Martel | Marta
Series: no grave can hold my body down; i'll crawl home to her. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1782409
Kudos: 6





	well you look like yourself (but you're somebody else)

**Author's Note:**

> This has been something I've been working on for a long time. Originally, I was trying to push myself to do some kind of 20k type oneshot but kept facing burnout and was unhappy with the approach. So I forgot about this. Now after my annual rewatch and stumbling upon some amazing "Greed + Devil's Nest Live" AUs, I got inspired to scrap the entire thing and redo it and this is the final product I've ended up pretty happy with. I'm going to end up doing a series of one shots rather than just a single monstrous one-shot. Let me just add a few notes;
> 
> \- Plot is kind of a background noise here. It's one year after COS movie, the Elric brothers are kind of doing their own saving the world thing. This is the 'meanwhile' section. 
> 
> \- It's a very minor detail, but I'm retconning the brief cameo of Roa, Bido, and Dolcetto as scientists working for Alfons. They don't even appear in this fic but they will appear in this series, and they're all WWI veterans with severe injuries / scars. Also, I won't be using their 03 translated names either. Martel's is used here, but that's only because I'm implying that in the original universe, her name was Martel all along.

_ Quand il me prend dans ses bras _

_ Qu'il me parle tout bas _

_ Je vois la vie en rose _

.

.

.

_ Munich, 1926 _

Their eyes interlock and the reaction that would follow was almost instantaneous, their feet coming to a halt and their destinations forgotten. It was not love at first sight, in fact it was never about love, but instead a strange and sudden ache erupting in their chests that made it painful to breathe let alone move. Strangers are what they are, realistically, and what they should only be. But something begged to differ in this moment. They chose to continue prolonging, staring intensely at each other without either one saying. Crowds continue on without stopping on both ends, but for them, their worlds have interlocked and frozen.

And in another life -- although neither one knows it, not in this life -- less than days apart, their worlds had ended abruptly and violently.

How enigmatic can one’s face be; as seconds transform into minutes into what feels like hours, how long can they stay like this? With their mouths agape, holding on to those three little words which neither one’s mouth can make the right movements to form;  _ I know you _ . Sorrow which she never knew of before, that she never felt or had any reason to experience, is suddenly relieved. An emptiness that has plagued him since birth feels almost complete, a starvation that crept on his bones is almost sated, satisfaction feels within reach. 

But this is on the account they stay. This is basing it on the hopes that someone will reach out first and say something

Right now, the world stops for no one; it whirls, twirls, spinning with dazzling, flashing lights blinding patrons it serves and the poor it excludes. There are dancers flaunting their girlish figures and men soaking up these teases with stiff drinks in hands, there’s not a damn thing wrong in the world, the music’s playing too loud. And when something troublesome comes about, the misery is avoided by turning it up louder. Trouble’s going to come knocking, but does it have to happen right now? And oh, how bad could it be? The poor souls, they don’t know. They don’t know a thing at all, not yet at least ( they haven’t suffered; not in this life at least ) but soon, soon enough. Trouble’s going to come knocking. 

In reality, this exchange has taken up only a few seconds. Suddenly, one looks away and it doesn’t matter who it was first. The tie is severed, the sense of familiarity ghosting across the room’s distance from one another evaporates, and just like that it is gone. An opportunity never taken, one they’ll never know about. He's surrounded in hearty laughter and has another woman under his arm, one to last the night, and holds a drink in the other. It doesn’t bother him in the slightest. That’s what he tells himself.

But those sad green eyes are damning, daunting. Like a siren, he thinks. No, he fumbles on his liquor fueled thoughts and searches for a better word. Like a snakecharmer. Admittedly, he’s captivated and wants to follow her next move.

If she goes out that door and onwards with her life without so much as a greeting, he’ll never forgive himself. So he manages to catch her gaze once again in the knick of time.

He flashes a smile, wolfish and crooked, but full of strange charm. She's been watching how the pretty girls flock to and fro, bundled in his arms and taking every inch of capacity, the poor silly things. He does this to all of them, so this otherworldly grief is discarded in exchange for an unimpressed eye roll. Nonetheless, there is acknowledgement. 

And for whatever reason, it’s enough to make a difference.

.

.

.

She returns the following night, god knows why, for hard liquor since it’s every person’s god given right in this forsaken land ( for now, at least ) to take advantage of. She does not come here all that often, but she’s been here enough times for the bartender to know her face but never her name. Rarely does she speak, perhaps it’s for good reason. all she ever does is keep to herself, in bundled clothes as if she can’t leave the house without a scarf, and keeps her eyes to the floor aside from eye contact when necessary. Her voice is low, low enough only for the bartender to hear her request and exchange of thanks with a sly smile; there’s nothing timid about her, just tensely guarded like her life depends on it.

He finds her fast enough, keeping his stride in his smooth, slow approach. Was he looking for her or had she been waiting for him? Every bit of this feels perfectly rehearsed, or rather, a carefully practiced routine. But how can that be so for two people who have never met before in this life? In this life, that is. He takes the seat right beside her as if they’re two friends that planned to meet up right here. 

“Kept me waiting long enough.” she tells him upfront, as though she were a date half convinced that she’d been stood up after waiting. Just how long had this wait gone on? Far too long. 

He returns the notion with a grin of his own, laughing softly. “My apologies, miss. I didn't mean to keep you waiting, I was caught up in something.”

Laughter, again, though this time with a tone of disbelief. she downs her shot, and in the next beat, with skepticism all over her face she asks; “Something or _ someone?” _

The point blank accusation would be hurtful if it were anyone else. Instead, his expression is playful as he shakes his head. “Not at all. It’s only you tonight, dollface.”

_ Dollface _ . Best believe she’s heard it all before -- honey, kitten, sweetheart -- but this one sends a shiver. not because she’s wildly impressed by his charming skills, No. Not by a mile. He's slick and sly, sure, in the way she imagines a tomcat might look after taking a grease bath. But his voice is honey and smoke, something so sweet, too sweet that’s too good to be true. Oddly enough, every word he says has a strange sense of sincerity, like he’s proud to admit he’s got wandering eyes. Well, at least she can appreciate the honesty. 

She watches how with a simple wave of a hand, he wordlessly indicated for a drink of his own. Seconds later, a perfect exchange occurs -- again, wordless, and this time without even making eye contact with one another -- where his drink is placed in his hand and the bartender seizes the bill between the fingertips.

“What's your name?” he asks with genuine intrigue and leaning forward. The lighting is this bar has always been poor and the drinks have a dizzying effect after some time, but she’s sober as can be under the direct light from where they’re seated at the bartop; doesn’t change the fact that his eyes are the second strangest pair she’s ever seen, right behind a gentleman with two different colored eyes. They’re the bluest of blues, deep like the ocean, but something in the center somewhere has this abnormal, purplish hue to them. Something in them is vivacious, befitting of someone who is fearless in handling life.

And therefore, unlike she, is unafraid of the consequences.

“Marta.” she answers. “And you?”

Laughter, hearty laughter. How strange, a question as simple as this could prompt such a reaction. It happened so quickly, before it could fully register - before she could classify it and  _ him  _ as odd - he speaks; “Well you see, it’s the funniest thing. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? How do you not know your own name?” her voice almost raises in shock. almost. Marta is someone who carries herself as though she treads on black ice, and that she does. Even in places like these, for every one warm and friendly face there are ten strangers that cannot be trusted. Her behavior must remain predictable and mundane; head and voice kept low, though it cannot be helped that she herself learns further in intrigue. 

“I’m a jack of all trades, a man always on the run. I change my name like my clothes, usually a day by day basis.” he shrugs with admittance. What? It can’t be helped. Hard times have fallen already for some, is it a sin for a man to wear the same shirt twice in a row? Thrice, if needed? No, simple as that, don’t change what ain’t stained. Don’t fix what ain’t broke. The same method applies to his ever-changing aliases, which really, are only changed when his luck in one place has soured and he needs to move on to the next. “Really, it’s like i’m trying to find something that sticks.”

“And the name your parents gave you? I take it was…” she trails, her features becoming animated in hopes of filling a blank where words fail. Too obnoxious? Too outdated? Too foreign for the likes of these men here? She waves her hand in the air a bit. “... you know?”

“See, that’s the problem there: I don’t know. I wish I knew what my old folks gave me, but I really ought to say I wish I knew  _ them  _ to begin with. My earliest members are being dropped off in the streets, the hell if i know this correlates with them possibly dropping dead. All I know is that since then, I either went along with what others called me or I picked a name that rolled off the tongue nicely. Just doing what I had to do to get by, one town to the next. y’know what I mean,  _ Marta?” _ Were there a cigarette in hand, he probably would have taken a drag seconds before saying her name like that; it rolls off the tongue so smoothly, with a lazily conjured charm that’d make any other pretty face in this bar fall flat on their feet.

Except she isn’t a pretty face, she’s got brains. Well, enough street smarts at least to piece together two and two from his words.

A criminal, she thinks.  _ My god, I'm sharing drinks with a criminal _ . Why else would a man like he need to run, need to needlessly drop names at the dime of a hat? Just what is this exactly? A set-up of sorts? Is that why the girls come and go -- because they’re never heard from again? That does it, the spell’s worn off for sure. This place is the town’s equivalent to a bottom of a barrel, where the scum and discarded alike lurk, and she had to sit with the spider of all creatures. 

She doesn’t need to get tied up with the likes of him. She should know better. 

But Marta’s eyes twinkle at his allure.

.

.

.

It becomes something of a routine; the two of them meeting like this. It couldn’t even be excused as running into each other, no, they were searching the other out. It’s almost  _ pathetic  _ really, this routine of theirs. If she takes too long, he’ll naturally befriend a face or two, sometimes a crowd. After all, he’s a man who craves attention -- who craves to be  _ the  _ center of attention, getting everyone roughened and riled up. But she works differently, she’s cautious and coy. She’s doing her best not to get killed as a consequence of poor choices, let alone become a casualty as a result of his stupidity. So he, in an effort to keep her attention, shakes the entertainment court off each time he catches her figure at the doorway or her face in the sea of crowds.

Yes, it’s a strange routine between the two; in a place of all things sin and buffoonery, the real scandal is the fact these two haven’t left the vicinity once hand in hand ( she’s got a pretty face, the few who come often and care enough to notice their surroundings will say. she looks like a nice time, what’s he waiting for? Her father’s permission? ) here they meet, and bit by bit he tells her his tale.

He's a conman. But he insists he’s not a liar; there’s nothing he needs to make up, not when he can get people to go along and do things for him willingly. Best believe it, he’s done it all. A charming salesman, bringer of a worldwide phenomena, a down-on-his luck limp, he’s done it all, truly. And he wasn’t a liar, He just probably didn’t meet anyone’s typical expectations in doing so. but he’s got the charm part and he sold useless junk to somebody once ( he called the car a beauty, a genuine antique. both of which are true. he never said it  _ worked _ . ) and he’s been the hype man for traveling circuses once or twice. It’s not his fault the animal hidden behind the curtain happened to die from negligence by its owners moments before he conveniently unveils it. And as for the limp? Well he  _ did  _ twist his ankle the other day, leaving him a hobbling mess for old ladies to take pity on just because he looked like he could be their poor, hard-working grandson. Hey, those times he didn’t ask for the money, they insisted upon giving it to him. 

Next, he tells her that he runs his own crew with faces who come and go, and truth be told he couldn’t forget a single face if he tried. It's a ragtag crew of the most loyal sons of bitches he’s managed to come across who know how to drink like it’s their last day on this earth. The thing is, that’s how their outlook on life has been for quite some time; after all they’re, or most of them at least, are war veterans, shell shocked and in a disarray wondering what the use was in all that fighting after all. and boy do they have a funny way of coping, drowsy in black humor about death as they, paradoxically, live life to its very fullest. 

Yes, now  _ that’s  _ the kind of friends he’s looking for, the ones who don’t ask or wonder. they just do. With them, everything happens by a very simple cause and effect process. With said cause being, who else, but him. He doesn’t look at it as bossing around since he’s not technically giving out orders, but more or less offering up ideas with a persuasive charm to it. Like a hey fellas, feel like helping me move these crates of ‘oranges’ to one side of town? Followed by a shrug and nonchalant sure, sometimes with the query about keeping some to themselves. Cut to a half-assed effort of a banquet in a dingy, dimly lit basement with spilled bottles and poker chips; a joyous scene of slobbering drunks engaged in an incoherent mix of war songs in mother tongues, arm in arm. It can get a little sentimental at times, over the time love proclamations are made, usually by him. Mostly, honestly, only by him. 

_ “I love you bastards; you’re real one-a-kind pals,” _ he’d slur, and that wasn’t a lie so much as an overused statement. As in, he has and still will say it to anyone and everyone ever considered a friend in his perspective.

If it were determined by friends as opposed to money, he supposes that’d make him the richest man in all of Europe ‘til someone comes after him with tax fraud; knowing names and remembering faces is just one thing, after all.

He’s a conman, he tells her loud and proud, making twice as many friends for every one enemy and best believe him, those uniformed fellas are sick of him; and someday, the world’s going to be his for the taking, so help him god when he gets outta this drab old place ( and even then,  _ after  _ taking it for himself first ). His voice is starting to sound like a passionate, breathless frenzy -- she waits on him to shake his fist at his proclamations, waits for a nonexistent spotlight to shine down on his moment right with the crown he ought to top himself with -- and still, she’s hanging on every word rambled away. This is nonsense, this spells out the sort of trouble she’s been so desperately trying to get away from, _ he’s _ trouble. His voice draws her from her thoughts and there’s that terrible dogged grin again. the drink is settled on the tabletop, his hand offered nonchalantly. “ -- you could even be a part of it.”

She blinks, taken back. “Why me?” 

He catches on to the bit left unspoken; why not any other girl, one who will surely say yes, if she’s one of the ones who flung herself into your open arms before? His expression reads off as amusement. At least he seems to ponder thoughtfully on his words for a moment, before giving up in a causal shrug. “You don’t look like you’ve got anything else to do, and not for nothing, but you look like you could use some fun.”

“Oh? And  _ you’re _ going to show me a good time?” she raises a brow, barely holding back her laughter. Oh, she was right. a tom-cat he is, alright, one who thinks he’s got the fucking cream. 

“I am a guaranteed good time, dollface.” he says and by now the grin is so large, so wide. She should slap him dry, knock him off whatever sense those drinks are putting him in.

Marta shakes her head slowly in disbelief, though if there was ever any doubt about his profession, it’s gone now. Just look at his face, the shit-eating grin on that handsome face. That man was born to tell convincing lies, for someone who strongly claims he doesn’t. “You seem to be a one time show, one that never earns you any second rounds.” 

“I think it’s fair to say there’s a couple of lovely, local patrons who’d recommend me actually. You mighta seen them here and there, during the times you’ve come here and  _ don’t  _ look like you’re trying to drink your sorrows away.” he quips. To any passerby, this sort of tension spells trouble. But to each other, it’s an intriguing challenge; what will it take to make the other interested, and how long before both realize -- just like all the other times beforehand -- a chance still exists to walk away. ( But see, they know. They both know, it’s a waiting game. Who leaves first,  _ if  _ they’re going to leave -- her out of disinterest or him out of boredom. )

They wait; neither leaves.

.

.

.

They don’t come to an exact agreement, either. Everything was stuck in an awkward standstill at the moment since she never gives a clear answer to his offer and he lingers on standby, the offer is still on the table but he isn’t going to hammer her down persistently. 

In the meantime, they still come back to each other at the end of every night unfailingly. Gradually, the wait for one another shortens. What used to be an uncertain number of hours trickles down into a waiting game of only minutes. He never dives in for the crowd’s attention anymore save for a few warm greetings. Instead, he takes his unofficial favorite spot at the barstool and waits with his eyes locked at the door for her to arrive. Each time she walks right in they share a gaze -- that same gaze with that same faint, tingling feeling ghosting between each other -- and one of these days he’s been meaning to bring that up to her. He wonders if she experiences it the way he does because for him, it feels like a throbbing ache in the back of his skull like karma itself kicks at him. He feels like he needs to  _ remember  _ something, but what? It’s like the unlucky feller who realizes too late that he left the oven on back at home or forgot to get a gift for an important anniversary date. 

The only other comparable ache is the one whenever he devotes the time trying to remember his past, most specifically, his name. These days he’s given up. With nonchalant ease he merely goes with the flow, with whatever name sticks or lets others decide. Anything’s better than trying to remember. Anything’s better than the actual migraine inducing pain that follows with every attempt at trying. The curiosity can sometimes become insatiable and too tempting for his own good, but he’s learned to leave it alone at this point. The best way he’s justified it not being worth it is that, for all he knows, his folks named him Shitbag McBastard before dumping him on the streets. So, really, it might not be that grand of a treasure hunt trying to dig up the past anyhow.

Funnily enough, Marta has yet to give him a nickname of any sorts. Everyone else in this dump already has taken it upon themselves like old chums to holler out familiarities, of which he eagerly responds to whenever they meet. But not her, no. She just looks straight at him when she talks, the best indication that she’s talking to him and no one else. When she does this, she bores right into his soul with those piercing greens of hers, as if searching him out. Maybe it’s how she gets such a good read on most people, himself included, or maybe it’s how she determines if someone like him is full of shit. Alternatively, maybe she’s just searching out for something through him, in him.

Honestly, he wishes he had whatever answer it is that she seems to be looking for. Then again, he simply wishes he had  _ everything _ .

.

.

.

“Tell me your story,” he slurred one day with feverish eyes of excitement, leaning forward so suddenly he nearly fell flat on his face. 

She helped prop him back up with a forceful hand but nearly shoved him in the opposite direction. Just now, they’d been laughing about something else -- a story he’d been attempting to share with her, if it wasn’t for him being caught up in his own hysterical fit from just thinking about how it panders out -- which is why she was still giggling when she asked; “What?”

“Your story.” he clarifies, and this time leans onto the bar tabletop with an elbow propped, chin resting in his palm. “I told you mine. I want to know yours.”

The bubbles of laughter die on her lips now. He’s serious. As sudden as this may seem, she cannot say it’s an unfair request, not when she’s come to know of his life story now like a favorite book repeatedly checked out of a library. 

“Well there’s not much I can say, really. I was a hotheaded kid who gave my parents a hard time. I did what most kids claim they’re going to do whenever they have a temper tantrum and can’t get their way. I--” Deep breath. “I ran away and joined the circus.”

His entire body shot up straight and he immediately composed himself from that lazy, dreamy-eyed look he’d been staring at her with moments before. He waited for a punchline that never came.

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope.” she answered with an affirmative head shake. “As it turns out, I’m a gifted contortionist.” 

Well that shut down his internal betting debate about if she’d been merely a pretty promoter face like he was at one point in life or if she’d been one of those tiger tamers. In fact, he didn’t bother hiding his confusion despite the mesmerization. “A contor-  _ what _ ?”

“Talentedly flexible. Anything you think a person can’t do, I have probably already done it before for an act.” A proud smirk made its way to Marta’s lips. After all, it was her greatest gift which she prided herself on. And at the time in her peak performance era, she’d considered herself the luckiest teenager in the world to channel in the innate talent at a time when she’d needed it most. Otherwise her sole adventurous journey of her life thus far might have been spent cleaning after the exotic animal dumpings and carrying the scent of a farmhouse. 

His gaze had turned sultry after that last sentence. “Can I get a demonstration sometime?”

Marta laughed haughtily. “Sorry, that show’s been retired.”

“Aw, what happened?” he feigned a pout. “Did someone else’s gig run you out of town?”

She reacted to the question as though her hand had touched a hot stove. Wincing from sheer embarrassment glancing back at the memories. It was inevitable that it would be brought up. Scratching the back of her head nervously, she began; “Well…”

“Wait! Don’t tell me!” he’d interrupted with a sudden snap of his fingers. “The ringleader wanted to court you, and didn’t like the competition from the lion tamers. When he couldn’t have you, he kicked the bucket with you. Am I right?”

Silence, sheer silence. Marta’s lips parted, struggling to find the words. “In a nutshell? You’re close.”

Slapping his thigh in delight, it was pure luck on that call. He cackled, taking hold of one his near empty shot glass and finished off the last of the contents inside. “No way.”

Fiddling with her fingers nervously, an unsure laugh accompanied it. “Try the ringleader’s son, the self-professed snakecharmer.”

This time, he was now rubbing his hands together in delight. The details of this tale just became delightfully complex to him. “Go on.”

“I was sixteen, and just a silly girl. Or so he thought. Lorenzo was his name, and he thought that his pops was being biased in his pick of pretty girls since I wasn’t a main star. He came to me with an idea about a duet act, which didn’t sound like a bad idea. I figured it was because I could move and coil myself like a snake, or maybe he just wanted an extra pair of hands on set. As it turned out, he just wanted to strip me down to the bare minimum and do some shitty dances for his cobras while he played the lute.” During her explanation, Marta took hold of her nigh-forgotten shot glass and simply stared at it, swirling the amber colored contents of it as she vented.

In one second, she took a hard swig to finish it. In the next, she slammed it down onto the table and finished; “He wouldn’t have any other answer besides the one he wanted to hear. He put his hands on me. So I happened to let my hands wander for a weapon or something to knock him off me, and happened to land on one of the vases housing a snake. I reached in, and by sheer fucking luck or the grace of God himself, nagged one of the slimy things and threw it right in his face. It goes for his nose and takes a nice chunk out of him --”

Even though she couldn’t help but crack a hint of amusement in reminiscing, it now spread to a full fledged grin at the sound of his contagious howling laughter in disbelief. 

“Aw dollface, you gotta tell me the gnarly details! Did it eat him up?” In his defense for his excitable attitude, the only circus gig he’d gotten in his life had involved already-dead exotic animals. If memory served him correctly, there hadn’t been any snakes involved either.

Only disappointment awaited that query. She shook her head. “No, he didn’t lose it, and he was no Adonis to begin with, but I hear he’s all wrecked up about his ruined vanity to this day -- and get this, he manages to get to daddy dearest before me to conjure a whole faultless story. I reckon it doesn’t matter if I’d gotten there first or said anything different that day. I had to hightail it out of there and lost whatever I built for myself that day.”

There was another long, drawn out pause. This time, a melancholic resolve surfaced. “Since then I’ve just… wandered aimlessly. I can’t go back home, it’s hardly a home to me now. I just get by and do what I have to do to survive. I sleep with one eye open these days like I keep expecting old circus cronies to jump me on the boss’s orders.” 

Her nameless companion looked genuinely sympathetic. “Do you ever miss it at all, that old life?”

That was a tricky question. She’d never made a substitute family out of the other fellow circus members, not really, but most had been friendly enough with her, and a handful had pitied her enough to take the time to teach her how things worked around there. Without them, she would have never gained the street smarts she had now to survive nor worked up the courage to simply go about in life unchaperoned. She’d never joined the circus in search of fame or fortune but she’d certainly grown to love the cheer and applaud of audiences during her shows, the paralyzing stage fright striking at every nerve of her body and the exonerating thrill of success rushing through her to wash it all away thereafter. 

So just what was it that she missed?

She closes her eyes and thinks back, and she remembers. She remembers the long train rides with rickety tracks going from place to place, one show to the next. She remembers her legs dangling out of open compartments and the breeze blowing through her hair. She remembers the changing scenes of greenery and woodlands to homely villages in forgotten outskirts to budding cities. The days were long, the nights longer. It was always focused on the journey, rarely the destinations. There were campgrounds some nights and cheap inns on other nights. On the rare off days there were dives with hardly welcoming appearances but the service’s quality was good enough. There were jovial companions and cheap drinks shared, cigar fumes pungent and clouding the air, poker chips and loose change a mixed mess thrown on gambling tables in the low dim lights.

She remembers familiar faces and suddenly, inexplicably, nestled amongst these memories is  _ his  _ face; his arm around her shoulders half-possessively and his sly laughter over cocky poker deals, the overpowering scent of leather and cologne in the past which is the exact same she’s come to know, and even hears his voice making the same offers as he does to her now about taking the world together and this is all so sudden, so startling, so electrifying. She nearly throws herself out of her seat in shock because that is  _ impossible.  _

It would be uncalled for, but she almost wants to slap him -- because  _ what the hell are you doing to me  _ \-- or grab him by his collar, even though she knows that if he stands up fast enough then she’ll never reach him. She wants to know what this is all about, if he’s in on something sinister, and if he’s been suffering these same migraine-inducing moments of implanted memories of the two of them that have never happened. Maybe he’s been putting something in her drinks all along and she’s never even noticed it. At least being so blindly batshit drunk would be a passable explanation, would make her feel better in denying that she might possibly be losing her mind in the span of these past few weeks. He has to know something about this, he has to know why she sees his face or hears his voice in conversations that were never spoken in her memories because they never happened.

Maybe she really is losing her mind after all, at such a fitting time, since there’s a sense that this world’s going to go right to shit once the curtain facade of good times and partying gets ripped away.

Marta hasn’t forgotten the original question about missing her old life. A haughty laugh wants to make its way up but dies in her throat, otherwise she would have answered with biting sarcasm about  _ which  _ old life he seems to be referring to. 

Instead, shrugging, she can’t help but answer with complete honesty.

“I miss the adventure of it all.”

Like a fish taking the bait, something in his expression changes to hopeful excitement. He straightens up immediately, with one hand outstretched in offering for her to take.

“Come with me.” he implores, fervently, with more passion than his previous offer about joining him in his shenanigans. “Join up with me and my ragtag crew. It’s no circus, for sure, but we’ve got some odd ones and the fellas that’ll never fit in again after what the war’s done to ‘em. It’s loud and dysfunctional and we never know what tomorrow brings, but that’s how we like it.”

“I don’t-”

“Wait, wait. I know, it’s a lot. I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you, Marta. I’m not gonna sell you snake oil and call it a wonder tonic that solves all problems. It’s hard, sometimes, there’s days where we don’t do jack or don’t have shit. I’ve got five bucks left in my pocket right now and that’s about all my life savings; it’s American money, by the way, so no good. But I won it in a card deal by luck a few days back and who knows? Maybe in the next one, I’ll win a million. Or the keys to a rundown mansion in France that’s half-bombed out but at least it’s got a roof, and I’ll make a palace outta it. I can’t promise you much, but I can promise you this: you’ll never be bored, you’ll never wander aimlessly, and those pretty greens of yours will never look so damn sad again. My crew? I take care of ‘em. I take care of everyone. So yeah, it’s no circus life, but it’s a hell of a show. Come with me and get out of this dump dive, and I promise you’ll never look back or regret it.”

It feels like he’s just poured his heart out to a judge to talk himself out of conviction and set himself up with a clean streak. Or schmoozed his way with elites in some party he’s wandered into, charmed his way right into their wallets. But he’s a wanted man, depending on the place, and his pockets are lightweight. But he’ll be damned if he doesn’t say that he’s given in his all this time in trying to persuade her, truly, he’s trying this time.

But maybe all that’s done for him is just scare her off for good this time. Maybe it’ll be a polite smile and decline, and then she’ll scurry off never to be seen again. Something inside of him feels like breaking apart into a million pieces if that’s what ends up happening; unconsciously, his resolve begins to deflate.

Her expression is indecipherable, though, which might hold promise. She’s boring right into his soul with some kind of steely expression, quiet and unmoving. He’s about to pull his hand away when--

“One condition.” she breaks the silence at last, the corners of her mouth hinting at the barest smile.

He breathes out an exhale, having never even realized he was holding his breath this entire time. His heartbeat was steadying itself as he answered. “Anything, doll.”

In the next beat, she laid out the simple condition. “I want a name to call you by. A fitting one, and one no one else has called you before.” 

Well,  _ shit. _

That’s going to take out a lot of contenders now, isn’t it? He’s thrown a lot of regular names for aliases in his time. His crew tend to call him a variety of the term boss -- depending on the inflection and tone, either with affectionate or annoyance -- so that’s no good.

What fits best for a man like him? What works for a man who more or less wants the world in the palm of his hand but, as of right now, has no plan for that goal let alone anything to show for? Insatiable, passionate, persistent -- those are the three best terms to describe himself, or so he’d say if ever asked. No regular throwaway false name is going to do if he intends on keeping her around, none of them are good enough. But that’s when the lightbulb goes off in his head, just like that.

With that same wolfish grin he flashed her on the very first night they met, he proudly replies;  “Avarice.”

Grinning back, she eagerly takes hold of his hand with every hopeful intent of being whisked away from this dive right at this very moment, and says; “Alright then. Avarice it is.”

.

.

.

_ fin. _


End file.
